


Barley

by Jaydeun



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 12td19, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Drabbles, Drunk Aziraphale (Good Omens), Drunk Crowley (Good Omens), Fluff, Humor, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, Soft Crowley (Good Omens), They are so cute when drunk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-18 22:48:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22034437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaydeun/pseuds/Jaydeun
Summary: Crowley discovers chocolate stout. As usual, drunk conversations turn toward ... Fish.*Written for the Twelvetide Drabbles prompt Barley
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 31
Collections: Twelvetide Drabbles 2019





	Barley

**Author's Note:**

> This was partly inspired by the following Tumblr: https://tio-trile.tumblr.com/post/189539239319/guys-listen-i-thought-of-a-new-au

Crowley hadn’t heard of chocolate beer before. To be fair, he hadn’t heard of peanut butter beer, coffee beer, floral beer, or any of the other bizarre flavors boasted by the new local microbrew. Was a bit like wandering into an alcoholic Baskin Robbins, to his mind. But that made him think of the one person likely to appreciate such concoctions, and after discovering that on-tap was preferable to in-bottle, he found himself in possession of an entire keg of chocolate stout. Being a demon of manners, he immediately miracled the entire production (with tap and proper think-walled, pre-chilled glasses) to Aziraphale’s bookshop. As beer was neither whiskey nor wine, Crowley assumed it wouldn’t be possible to get ‘stupid drunk’ on its surely inferior levels of alcohol. He would be quite wrong.

***

”But why would I want to be a fish?” Aziraphale asked, hiccuping over the frothy head of his just-refilled mug. Crowley had become an expert at topping off without overflowing. By the ninth time. However his sense of proportion and distance were starting to waver.

”Jussst answer the qu-question, angel. If you *had* to be fish, what fish would you want?”

”Wish.” Aziraphale giggled into the glass, which resulted in foam sputtering onto his nose and upper lip. “It rhymes.” Crowley rolled his eyes. Except they didn’t really do that very well so he rolled his head around to compensate.

”Wish, then.”

”Dolphin.”

”Wha—no no no, s’not a fish. S’mammal. We did this once.”

Aziraphale frowned and slurped a bit more stout. He hadn’t thought it tasted of chocolate at the start. Malted barley maybe. But after 10+ glasses it did seem rather cocoa-like?

“What?” He asked.

”Can’t be dolphin.”

”Fudge.” Aziraphale squinted at Crowley. “Tastes like fudge.”

Crowley tried scowling but his forehead had gone a bit numb so Satan knows what his face were really up to.

”You aren’t taking this seriously.”

”Fine fine—what fish are YOU then? And no sea snakes.”

Crowley was going to say sea snakes. Because he had a joke about them and this was a very long segue. It was a disappointing development.

“Why not?”

“Also not fish,” Aziraphale said, wagging a finger. Crowley tried taking his sunglasses off, then remembered they were already off, along with his jacket, tie, shoes... he still had his trousers apparently.

“Shark,” he said suddenly, snapping his fingers. “Thassit—shark. Toothy bastards.”

Aziraphale made a face.

”Hmmm. I suppose.”

”Don’t like sharks?” Crowley asked, leaning on his knee, missing, and almost tumbling onto the floor. 

“Oh. Well.” Aziraphale fussed with his tie, which wasn’t there, having been removed ages ago. “It’s all right so long as you aren’t one of those with the heads.”

Crowley blinked.

”I think they all have heads?”

”Pffft—No! I mean *yes* they do. You know which ones I mean. Heads like a—em—tool head.”

”Screwdriver?” Crowley asked. 

“Yes! Wait. No that’s not it. It was another tool.”

“Oh.” Crowley modded knowingly. “Gabrielhead.”

Aziraphale, who had been in the process of a long draught of beer, laughed, choked, and managed to spill the rest right into his lap. 

“Oh—fuck!” He yelped. Crowley’s eyes went wide to whites.

”Sssay that again,” he encouraged, slithering from his chair and propping himself up between Aziraphale’s knees. 

“No more talk of our favorite fish, then?” Aziraphale asked, red faced and beer-fuzzed. Crowley absently dabbed as the spill with the edge of the table cloth, head resting on Aziraphale’s knee, eyes looking up in utterly besotted bliss.

”I promise,” he said.


End file.
